send you my love, on the wire
by MintiNeko
Summary: Sakura doesn't hold out hope for Sasuke's return. But the latest of these secret visits suggest he might yet give her a reason. AU.


**title: **send you my love on the wire  
**characters/pairing: **SasuSaku  
**rating: **M  
**summary:** AU. Sakura doesn't hold out hope with Sasuke. But the latest of these secret visits suggest she might have a reason to, after all.  
**notes:** This is a really old piece I started writing after the Scott Pilgrim movie came out. Loved Brie Larson's rendition of Black Sheep, which inspired this fic. Then…I abandoned it for three years. But it's done now.

* * *

Sasuke never shows up when Sakura expects it, but this is the first time he has ever pursued her, instead of just breaking into her apartment and waiting for her return.

The nightclub she is dancing is not the nicest venue, but it is crammed with dancing bodies. Sakura is close to the center of the crowd, but even with the flashing lights, the press of bodies, and the fact they have not seen each other in over a year, he immediately draws her attention. She doesn't know what he's doing here—he's dressed casually, and alone, as always. He doesn't look threatening, as an international criminal _should _look threatening, not in this trashy little place he left with everything else so long ago, to muster his strength and murder his own kin. He's leaning against the wall, eyes scanning the dance floor.

Looking for her.

No one else seems to recognize him. She's not surprised. It's been nine years since he last set foot in this establishment, back when they had been green recruits. None of their usual crowd come around here anymore. Even she only comes down when she's feeling nostalgic. Normally, she might have persuaded Naruto to tag along with her. But he's away on some secret mission at the moment, kicking ass and taking names, if things are going like they planned. So she came here with a couple other interns from her hospital, girls she likes but are not particularly close with. They have drifted off now, flirting and ordering drinks at the bar, but if Sakura feels mischievous she can always persuade them to come back on the floor. The other dancers are either too high or too drunk to notice anything but their own thrills, and those still sober enough to talk cannot come over and try to initiate a conversation with her unless she wants one.

He's found her now, and is watching her. He rests comfortably against the brick wall, his arms crossed, and his face half-hidden by the light. Despite the crowds, no one comes within three feet of him. He meets her gaze, scowling impressively. She laughs at how disproving he looks.

"What?" She mouths, mock-pouting, propping her fist on her jutted hip, posing for his benefit. She _likes_ these clothes. Tight black miniskirt, dark red corset top, knee high boots; they're so _different_ from her scrubs and the sweaters she dons at home. She dresses only for herself.

Sasuke's scowl only darkens, and he jerks his head towards the exit, as though to say_ you had your fun, we need to talk_.

It's been about fourteen months since she last saw him. The most recent news she'd heard was that he was part of the Akatsuki terrorists, plotting to destroy Konoha. She's not sure she doesn't believe it.

She turns her back on him. It seems the reasonable thing to do. She wants to dance tonight, to come home sweaty with her make-up smeared and the club's beat still thumping in her head.

He doesn't confront her, but he doesn't leave, either. Sakura cannot see his expression well enough to describe it.

She can't escape his gaze entirely, but not for a lack of trying. Each time she sinks deeper into the throng, he still finds her, somehow.

Well, if he's going to watch, might as well put on a show.

She dances, but there is a quality to her dancing that was absent before. She arches her back a little more, trails her fingers up and down her side; her hips push out to each side a little more when she sways them.

It's stupid. She's making a spectacle of herself. But something has been roiling and burning within her for a long time; a discontent from being locked up in one town, only allowed to be properly insane in a club named after some ridiculous euphemism on specific nights that she must otherwise coordinate perfectly so that she won't be falling over herself with papers and shifts and chores in the morning; being used by the man who won't take his eyes away.

And she wants to show him that she doesn't crave him. His presence. His approval. That their little 'visits' are not the be-all and end-all of her existence.

It works for all of an hour, which was better than she hoped but still not good enough—before Sasuke is shouldering his way through the crowd, towards her. A few interested girls intercept him, but he ignores them. Sakura tries to use the small respite for escape, but the crowd is too dense for her to dodge through quickly. His hand grabs her shoulder, and roughly turns her around to face him.

Up close, he's a little more worn. His black shirt hangs more loosely than the last time. There are scars on his arms and neck she doesn't recognize, and his eyes are duller than she expects. But he's still handsome, still carries himself in the same old fashion.

And he still has the ability to hold her gaze and entrance her.

Her heartbeat is throbbing in her ears, drowning out the crowd and the music. But Sasuke's voice still cuts through.

"Sakura, that's enough."

Sakura bites the inside of her cheek to keep her immediate retort from slipping out of her mouth. A smartass remark wouldn't have the desired effect on Sasuke, the stupid boy. He always had to go and ruin everything.

"It's not even midnight, Sasuke-kun," she says instead, batting eyelashes coquettishly and twisting out of his grip in one neat motion. Sasuke lets her, in a surprising gesture of amity, or whatever he's trying to go for. "I make a point of not leaving until about three in the morning."

"I need to talk to you."

The beat of the music is aching in Sakura's ears, and she turns without answering and threads through the crowd, towards the exit. Not that she has any intention of leaving the place, but Sasuke is following her and at the very least the music won't assault them quite as strongly by the doors, and if she is lucky, she can finish this whole business quickly and get back to her night off.

If she's lucky.

It's a warm night and no one else is about in the alleyway. She doubts anyone would hear them over the speakers, pounding even out here, but she doesn't want to take any chances.

"What do you want to talk about?" she asks, quite calmly, to her own internal surprise. Sasuke shows no such surprise. He simply shoves his hands deep into the pockets of his baggy slacks and doesn't quite meet her eyes.

_He's gotten so thin. _

The thought is involuntary, and she immediately shoves it to the back of her mind. Show one iota of affection, and he'll take it all, she reminds herself sternly, looking up to meet his gaze calmly.

"Sasuke-kun?" she probes, folding her arms in front of her chest and rocking back on her heels.

"I wanted to see you," he says, staring down at the ground beneath their feet, before bringing them back up again. "I was at your apartment, but you weren't there."

"You just picked the wrong night," Sakura shakes her head, runs a hand through gelled and glittering hair, heaves a deep sigh. "Besides, what do we have to talk about?"

He doesn't respond.

What he _does_ do is produce an old photograph—tattered and neatly folded in half—and holds it out for her to accept.

Gingerly, she does, raising an eyebrow at Sasuke in query, before allowing herself to unfold the photograph and look over its contents.

At first all she sees is a group of seven men, standing in a loose cluster. All in suits, none smiling. Otherwise, they are as different as can be. Some wear their hair long, some slick it back. Most are tall. One man is even masked. The Akatsuki.

Her heart seizes up when she recognizes Sasuke at the leftmost edge, dressed exactly the same, his face cold and hard. His face and the masked man's are the only ones without the strokes of black ink cutting through their faces.

Madara.

Sakura can only blink, stunned. She recognizes intellectually what the image means and the scope of its implications.

"Just one left, then," she manages, mind starting to whir and traitorous heart increasing its rate. "You can come home."

Sasuke inclines his head. "Perhaps."

The blandness of his tone suddenly infuriates her. Like it wasn't that big a deal. Like all the hell he put them through could be wiped clean off the slate—like it was some meaningless whim, that there were no consequences.

She gives a short, harsh laugh, tilting her head back. She's exposing her throat to him, which is a stupid idea, as everyone who has ever heard the name Uchiha Sasuke would know and what she _in particular_ knows.

"Sasuke-kun, you are amazing." She wipes her eyes free of the tears already threatening to fall. Probably smears her makeup, but so what? At least one part of her evening will turn out as planned. "Truly amazing."

When she looks up again, she can see the shadow of confusion creeping up around his face.

"For doing this," she elaborates, leaning against the wall. The brick is cold, but feels soothing against her flushed skin, not cooled by the night air alone. "You know, coming back when you're _still not done_. You'd think I'd have picked up the pattern by now. Popping up at unexpected intervals after you've finished joining criminal organizations and ripping them up from the inside. It's like one of those spy movies, when those self-centered assholes have a number of girls they meet up with to get supplies and, if they're in the mood, sex up."

She eyes him speculatively. His face has closed off again. But he's clenching his jaw, so he's probably a little angry.

She smirks at him. "As much as I would like to ask you how many girls you have, the fact that you haven't actually sexed me up puts a bit of a hole in that theory, and no one else would be stupid enough to help you without a lay or two in return. Besides, I have other things to think about."

"You're drunk," he says.

"I wish," she returns amiably. "I was a little tipsy earlier, but not anymore. Besides, tomorrow's my day off. Don't want to spend it with a hangover."

She exhales loudly.

"I don't want to dance anymore. Thank you for ruining that for me. Come on, let's go. Maybe you've miraculously manifested a gift with words and can persuade me into why your righteous path that broke so many hearts and minds is still the right one."

She leaves the alley, turns, and starts walking down the street, towards the city's heart. Sasuke's faint, even footsteps cannot be heard over the clacking of her heels on the sidewalk, and when she glances out the corner of her eyes, all she sees is a faint shadow from the glow of the streetlamps.

It's as though she's walking with a ghost.

* * *

No one passes them in the street, and they reach her apartment without incident. Rather than fumbling for her key at the door, Sakura simply puts her hand against the wood and pushes. As expected, it swings open at her touch. When she turns to Sasuke, the man doesn't even have the grace to look ashamed.

"You don't have to leave it unlocked," she says, annoyed, and more than a little tempted to revoke her offer. Sasuke won't intrude if she tells him not to, but her affection for him, however thinned and diminished, is still enough to have her stand aside for him; let him pass into her threshold.

A brief once over of the room indicates that nothing is out of order, not that she expected otherwise. Sasuke could be respectful like that. He was raised with very good manners, and sometimes it still showed.

"I'll make some tea," she says, already walking to the open kitchen, filling a kettle and turning on the stove. "Don't forget to put your weapons on the table." The pile of knives and guns is always unnerving, but it makes her feel safer.

"I didn't bring anything," he replies, quietly.

Sakura wonders if the fact that, this time, he came to her unarmed should be considered a victory, or a sign of contempt.

She doesn't have to ask Sasuke to make himself at home; she turns around to see only the back of his head and shoulders as he seats himself on her couch.

She doesn't have to ask what tea he'd like, either. Long experience guides her hand, and she still keeps a few bags of dark, strong stuff on hand. Just in case.

She could make idle chatter; it only takes a few minutes for the water to boil, after all.

But really, what is there to say?

The kettle whistles, and Sakura sets to work, taking out her only matching cups for the occasion while she lets the leaves steep. She pours the tea when it's ready and adds a spoonful of honey to her own cup. She leaves Sasuke's untouched.

"You hungry?"

He twists around to look at her, shakes his head once, and turns back again. She still breaks out a small box of madeleines and piles them on a plate.

Everything is placed on a tray and carried over to the coffee table. Sasuke, who has barely moved this whole time, takes the tray from her and sets it down, takes her own cup and hands it to her, as though she were the guest, before picking up his own.

"Thanks," she says, a little irritated at his presumption.

He does not reply, just takes a sip from his own cup, grimacing a bit at the flavor. Serves him right for insisting solely on black tea. Sakura barely takes a sip, setting tea aside in favor of a madeleine, suddenly hungry.

"So Sasuke-kun." She settles herself, leans back and throws one arm carelessly over the back of the sofa. "What do you want this time?"

One of his eyebrows arches up. "Getting to the point rather early, aren't we?" he asks, voice dry. "No small talk?"

"Only because you suck at it," says Sakura. In the past Sakura has tried to make his impossible visits as ordinary as possible. She would ask about where he had been, what he had found, or the people he had met. He wouldn't answer until her nervous chatter died away.

She angles an eyebrow at him. "Spill."

He heaves a sigh, ever so slightly exasperated, and sets down his cup.

"I need to avoid the dobe for the next few months. I don't need any details. I just need to know where he's projected to be."

That is an unusually mild request. Nothing like his second visit, when she turned on the lights and found him bleeding to death on her carpet.

Sakura raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Now why should I do that? You seem to avoid him well enough without them."

Sasuke blinks, presumably unbalanced by her lack of immediate compliance. Sakura takes it as a victory, however small.

"You are mistaken," he says. "The dobe and I have had great difficulty avoiding each other these past few months."

This is news to her. Naruto swings by whenever he has a breath between missions. They make ramen (you would think after spending months at a time living off packages of instant noodles, he would crave something different. But this is never the case) and exchange gossip.

Oh, Naruto! The days of being the worst in the business are long behind him—powerful businessmen hire him and trust him with all of their secrets and possessions. And his bleeding heart means he does not limit his clientele to those who can pay. No, Naruto does well for himself, and he has never forgotten her, even after she declined to continue her training as a spy and went to the military hospital instead.

But sometimes, he gets a little selfish. With Hinata, the heir to one of the older families in Konoha and anyone who might try to hurt her. With Sakura herself, because she was one of his first friends, before a certain one-eyed agent noticed their strengths, and brought them into his house and behind the doors of Konoha's government.

And especially with Sasuke. Sakura only understands their relationship halfway—understands the need for a rival, for someone against whom you can push and they can push and both will come out on top. For a while as a teenager, she and Ino shared a similar rivalry, before their interests led them down different paths and renewed their friendship. But their bond has a couple other aspects. The shared loneliness of parentless households. Men scrabbling to lay hands upon them, for no better reason than to have their own personal dogs to do their dirty work for them.

But still. She would have thought Naruto would know better than to keep secrets from her.

Something of her thoughts must be showing on her face, because Sasuke is speaking again.

"We haven't spoken," he says. "We glimpse each other. I have never gotten close enough to see his face. They haven't been…encounters. Not like this."

"I would hope not," she says drily, bringing the cup up to her lips. Still too warm, but no longer enough to burn. She feels the tension in her chest ease. Of course Naruto would tell her if he ran into Sasuke. He would never dream of keeping it from her.

Never mind that she hasn't been telling him about these little visits. But what could she say? She still sometimes thinks she dreamt up Sasuke's presence in her space. Even when he is right there with her.

She sighs, and wraps both hands around her cup. "Do you have any pressing business anywhere in Russia for the next two months?"

The corner of his mouth curves up. "Not particularly."

"Then I would advise you avoid it entirely," she tells him with utmost solemnity. "This one is pretty serious, so he didn't really spread it out much. The only postcard he sent had everything except the greeting blacked out." That's all she has to give him.

It is probably still considered treason.

"Avoid all of Russia." Sasuke repeats, shaking his head, and though the smile hasn't exactly broadened, there is a softening of his face, and Sakura might call him amused. "The dobe must be pleased."

Sakura bites back a giggle of her own. The thought of sunny Naruto stranded in a frozen wasteland, bundled in furs, _is _a funny one.

"You'll have to tell me how he survives it."

Something in Sakura seizes up, as it always does when Sasuke talks about the future. She hums noncommittally and sets down the cup.

"It might be old news by then. You might get to ask him yourself."

Sasuke's smile vanishes, and the line of his jaw grows sharper.

"Don't be like that," she says, quietly. "Sasuke-kun, if you don't want me to ask when you're coming home for good, you really should stop coming back to see me. Find someone else to get information, or medicines, or other supplies. I know you can afford it. You don't have to torture me like this."

He doesn't meet her eye. He moves to hunch over himself, his elbows braced on his knees and his fingers interlaced.

"I would have thought you wouldn't mind knowing that I was alive," his says, his voice rasping, scraping against her consciousness. Sakura sets her teeth at the sound of it. "My mistake."

"Don't you dare," she says, sitting up, her spine stiffening, her hands turning into claws on her knees. "Don't you _dare_ act like this is for my benefit."

"You could stop me," he shoots back, still not looking at her, gazing directly at their reflection in the balcony door. "You could have stopped me years ago. You could have told Tsunade. You could have told the dobe, but you haven't—"

"Of course not! How can you even think—"

"What I think," Sasuke finally looks at her, pins her with a searing look. "Is that you _like _this little secret of ours. That no one else knows. Sakura, you've been helping me for years without letting anyone know. I think—"

"I think you take advantage of how I love you," says Sakura, almost inaudible.

His mouth abruptly closes. He doesn't quite shrink back from her, but it's a near thing.

Her voice is steady. "I know your revenge is important. I understand that you have some sort of master plan behind all of these infiltrations, the stupid initiation rituals, the _tangential assassinations_. You don't say much, but it's easy to put together the pieces." She rubs at her eyes. "I have extra supplies in my medicine cabinet. I keep them stocked, just in case you happen to drop by." He probably knows all of this already. He's a smart boy, despite contrary evidence. She stands and picks up the tray and their half-empty cups to put them in the sink. This night is a little worse than some of the others have been—not _quite_ as bad as that first night, yet, but the way this is going she wouldn't be surprised if they surpass it.

But Sasuke is not fighting back. He isn't even looking at her any more. In profile, his face looks hollow and his eyes empty.

"Take what you need," she will not cry _she will not cry_. "Spend the night if you don't have anywhere to be. But please, Sasuke-kun. Don't come back until you are going to stay for good."

"Sakura."

He sounds so _tired _.

She hesitates, lingers in the doorframe between her bedroom and the rest of the apartment, waiting despite herself.

He's looking at her, but can't seem to meet her eyes. His eyes keep flickering away, focusing on other aspects of the room in small intervals, but always coming back to her.

"What?" She tries to sound cold and snappish, but she's tired, so it comes out hopeful instead.

"I don't _try_ to stay away. You think I wanted my revenge to take so long?" There's an edge to his voice she hasn't heard in a while. Unwittingly, she steps away from the doorway, and his eyes finally lock with hers. "Everything's complicated."

Sakura's unimpressed, but keeps her face schooled in its neutral expression. Getting Sasuke to admit any of his feelings is a rare occurrence—getting him to explain his motives rarer still.

So she walks back over to the couch instead. Sits herself down. Leans back against the cushions. No crossed arms (they could be taken as a sign of hostility); she sits on her hands so they won't betray her.

"I'm listening," she says.

Sasuke is like a statue. The only indication that he is a living being is the rise and fall of his chest, hidden by the looseness of his shirt and jacket.

"I think I have the truth of the massacre now," he says. "The whole of it. I don't think Madara understands the extent I have been studying it. He ordered me to assassinate some of the original members of Akatsuki himself. Says he wants to pass everything on to me, _to keep it in the family_," he mocks. "So I know his whereabouts. I know his habits. I have hundreds of plans about the best way to kill him. I just need to know that I'm right."

Madara. The true villain who set Itachi up as a scapegoat, though the younger man was hardly innocent of the crime. The only one in Akatsuki that Sasuke was truly after.

And, of course, the only one still left alive.

Sakura takes a deep breath and tries to control her thoughts. "So you are fact-checking?"

He nods. His lips quirk up in a self-deprecating smile. "After these last few years, I want to be sure that my sources are correct."

"I see," Sakura tries to stay neutral, but there is a little knot tightening in her chest—a sort of suppressed rage. "Will you grace me with any more information than that, or will I have to find out myself?"

Actually, she isn't entirely in the dark. Sasuke has given her a number of tidbits over the years. But only the first part of his reasoning is clear to her. When he first abandoned Konoha, she had understood. To avenge his family by killing the brother who murdered them all. That he sought to achieve his aims by working under Orochimaru, a famed terrorist and old associate of Tsunade's, was debatable, but it at least made a twisted sort of sense.

But after Itachi died, and Sasuke still didn't return to Konoha, Sakura was left to puzzle through on her own.

Sasuke gives a creaky laugh. "It's a very long story, Sakura, even if I tell it right the first time."

Sakura raises an eyebrow. "I'll alert the presses. Uchiha Sasuke incapable of summarizing the last nine years of his life in under a minute. Perish the thought."

He smiles, and there's a victory she hasn't laid claim to in a long while. Once, it had been a marker of progress. How many times would Sasuke-kun smile for her today?

"I'll tell you when I come back."

"Stop doing that."

The words are out of her mouth before she even has time to think them.

He can't do this anymore. Give her these tidbits and throwaway lines. Making her hope that he will return for good.

He just looks at her.

She puts a hand over her eyes. "Sasuke-kun, you just told me you don't know how long this will take. You've been saying the same thing for the last six years. As soon as this, as soon at that—what if Madara just unravels a brand new conspiracy?"

"Then I will return to Konoha and ask for your help."

The statement is so matter of fact Sakura looks up at him again, to see if he's joking. But there's no answering smirk on his face.

"You'll be thrown in jail, if you're lucky," she says.

"I think gutting two terrorist organizations from the inside might earn me a respite." His voice is bone dry.

She has to crack a smile at that—never let it be said that Sasuke didn't always think of a way to turn tables in his favor.

"Would you support me?" He asks, and she blinks, because Sasuke never asks about _her_ opinion.

She gives him a smile of her own. "You know I would. But," she holds up a finger. "Don't ever try to call me to the witness stand. I'm not going to talk about anything that ever went on in this apartment."

Sasuke's answering smirk is almost soft enough to be a smile. Point two for Sakura. "Is that right?"

"Promise." Sakura says, blithely.

He kisses her then, drawing her in by wrapping his hand loosely around the back of her neck. Sakura lets him, a little surprised, but receptive. It's still Sasuke. And it is nice to be reminded that Sasuke, however often he allows others to impress upon his thoughts, acts for himself and what he wants.

* * *

She's lucid enough to be amused by the absurdity of the situation. He, an international criminal and self-proclaimed avenger, and she, an intern wearing a ridiculous outfit that has never been seen in daylight, are kissing in this little apartment. And not for the first time, either. She would be lying to say that in these erratic visits, she has not noticed the gradual merging of their personal boundaries. That first visit, he remained standing the whole time, fists clenched at his sides. In each of his successive visits, the tension within him seemed to ease and the distance between them shrank. At his most recent visit, he fell asleep on her couch (not given to showing up at normal hours) with her curled up on the other side. He left in the very early morning but Sakura, light sleeper that she was, had felt him pull one of the blankets over her, and hesitantly kiss the corner of her mouth.

Of course, a goodnight kiss and what's happening now are two _very_ different beasts. She wants to bring her arms up to wrap loosely around her neck, but that requires shifting her body to face him. When she does so, he takes advantage of their position, his free hand slipping under the crook of her knee, and he pulls (gently) so that she slides down against the seat cushions and he is hovering over her. She doesn't protest, though she breaks their kiss by wiggling a bit, shifting into a more comfortable position before drawing his face down again.

They stay like that, kissing, hands tracing the other's body. But then Sasuke shifts from her mouth to her neck, his lips pressing briefly under her earlobe and continuing downwards, his hands stroking at her navel, crumpling up the fabric of her top and grazing the waistband of her skirt, that it becomes apparent that, if she permits it, they may very well go much further.

She tightens her grip around his neck and turns her face so that her lips are by his ear and whispers "I love you."

Those three words are familiar. She uttered them when he left nine years ago. When she was the only one to see the signs.

These next three words are new.

"I want you."

She stumbles over them a little—partly from his ministrations, and partly because they are _so true _they are frightening. Her emotions regarding Sasuke this whole night have been confusing, but at her core, she always wants him. His physical presence. His touch. His voice. Everything.

He stills. He moves his hands away from her waist and braces himself on his elbows, hovering over her. The expression on his face is no longer so impassive. He looks nervous. He looks _normal_. It has been difficult to read him all night, until now, when he looks the way she feels.

For a breath they are frozen in place, just looking at each other.

Then he lowers his head and whispers words meant for her and her alone. Words she seals by bringing his mouth to hers again and pressing him ever closer.

And so they go on. They don't talk as much as they probably should, considering it's a first time (possibly not _the_ first time, for him, but she doesn't care to know either way) that they are doing this _together_.

There are a few awkward moments. He can't find the zipper to her shirt. She almost strangles him taking off his. But they adapt. When they are both half-undressed, Sakura reaches over to the lamp on the small table, tangent to the couch, and turns it off.

In the shadows, they move at a more leisurely pace. The light is still on in the kitchen and the planes of Sasuke's face are painted starkly with both shadow and light. They slide into place with each other. All those years of thinking of him, of knowing him, means he is easier to read than she feared. And perhaps (she dares not hope) it's the same for him. Sakura bites at his neck and strokes the line of his hipbone. He trails his fingers under the swell of her breasts, kisses the inside of her thighs.

They meld together, not effortlessly, but with such great care that Sakura can only marvel at how well they fit, despite everything.

Their joining may be careful, but the sensations build up in her, the pressure and pleasure so intense that when she reaches her peak, she falls apart under him, sweat beading her skin, gasping for breath, laughing—almost crying—with how strongly she _feels_.

* * *

After, they lie intertwined. Sakura rests her head in the junction between Sasuke's shoulder and his neck. Her arms are loosely coiled around him. She feels only happiness in her half-awake state, without fear of consequences or contingencies. Sasuke's breathing is even, and she isn't quite sure if he is asleep or still in between, the way she is. Either way, she is content, and does not wish to break the silence.

She cards her fingers through his hair, applying only the gentlest pressure. Maybe she can afford to be optimistic, she muses, this time. Maybe he really will come back. They will have the trials to deal with—he'll probably get tossed in a jail cell for a little while—but he has personally killed so many threats to Konoha that it wouldn't be hard to imply that it was an arrangement between himself and Tsunade (wouldn't she _love_ that). Afterwards, Naruto could return and it would be all three of them together again, the way they were when they were children.

They are comfortable thoughts, and they lull her to sleep.

* * *

He still leaves without waking her up. At least, not intentionally. Even if Sakura wasn't a light sleeper, it is difficult to remain completely unconscious while someone else is handling one's body, however gently. The year she spent with Naruto and Sasuke, training as a part of the military before making a left turn into medicine instead, was more than enough to ingrain a certain awareness of her body and the space it occupied.

But she doesn't open her eyes. Neither of them are good at goodbyes, and if she sees him leave, it will feel like a broken promise, not the inevitability she understood it to be. She hears the rustle of his clothing as he dresses, and feels him move to drape the blanket over her. She curls up into herself, so that he won't see her face and guess that she is awake. She doesn't quite trust herself.

She can't quite hear him breathe, but she still feels it when he crouches down beside her. She resists the urge to open her eyes.

She wonders if he is going to say anything.

There is the pressure of lips on her forehead, and few more rustling movements before the creak of the door opening and closing, securely in place.

She doesn't open her eyes for a long, long time. When she does, when the light is streaming bright and clear through the glass panes, she does little more than sit and look at her hands. Every single regret she could possibly have crashes down on her, with no mantle of sleep or warmth of another body to hold them back.

Because that's what she does for Sasuke. She'll snarl and spit and turn her back on him, but still come to his aid whenever he asks. It's a little pathetic, and makes her feel like a groupie: disgusted, her stomach churning, and everything else positively _thrumming_ from the feel of his skin on hers, from the words they exchange, from his eyes looking at her and no one else.

With a sigh, she stands, wrapping the blanket around herself. There is an empty day ahead of her that needs to be filled, if she doesn't want to be stuck here wallowing her own disappointment. First, she needs to shower. Then, she has some errands to run. Yes. Those should do nicely. She should swing by Ino's division and take her out to lunch. She also needs to restock on her medicinal supplies, but that can wait until tomorrow—

The thought gives her pause.

Does she?

Sasuke left as soon as he was dressed. Did he even take anything with him?

Adjusting the blanket a little more securely around her body, Sakura goes to the medicine cabinet. Standard painkillers and vitamins exist in line with pills and solutions of her own invention. She started keeping them for innocent reasons, to help her friends in the business. Special concoctions adjusted for each person's body chemistry. With Sasuke's entrance back into her life, she started a stash meant especially for him. She kept it restocked at all times, just in case. Since that first visit, there hasn't been a time when Sasuke has left without at least one bottle in hand.

This time, her cabinet is as full as ever. Nothing disturbed until she shuffles it around, trying to see if Sasuke might have just been that meticulous.

Nothing is missing.

Perturbed, she rocks back on her heels. Did Sasuke really only come here for news about Naruto? Sasuke is a sneaky one—he has other methods of finding out information. In a practical sense, all Sakura is really good for is the medicines.

She refuses to think that he might just come because he wanted to see her. The thought is there, and it is hopeful, but it is not one that she likes to encourage.

There was a time when she was almost delusional with love for Sasuke, convinced he would return her affections if she just pushed hard enough. Then she grew up a little, and her love grew with her.

Being hopeful just doesn't seem like a smart idea.

It might be best to put all of her thoughts about Sasuke away for now. Her hopes and fears for him. Everything's too sharp, too fresh.

She rises and turns to go to the bathroom, determined to remove all residue of the night before from her body. Even in the shower, she can't help but think of phantom touches. She doesn't want those to fade. They are nothing to be ashamed of.

She goes through her morning routine quickly, unwilling to dawdle. Then, back to the living room, to clean up. She folds the blankets, makes minute adjustments to the furniture, and fluffs the pillows and cushions so there is no impression of his body upon them.

When she moves to the kitchen, to start washing the tea things, she sees the note.

It is little more than a scrap, folded neatly into four quarters. It looks a bit crumbled, like it has been in someone's pocket for a couple of days at least.

She unfolds it, her fingers trembling a little.

The script is a little cramped, but readable. There is a string of numbers across the top. A telephone number.

Underneath are the words.

_Sakura,_

_I'll call when I'm done. Thank you for everything these last few years._

_Sasuke_

Sakura can't quite stop her smile.

Perhaps it is not pathetic, after all, to hope.

* * *

Somehow, this got _so long_.

Also, what is it about these two kids? I haven't properly read the manga in a very long time, but they still always manage to reel me back in.

Hope you liked it!


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